


Come on, baby, let me know

by Lenore



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Case Fic, Demons, Gay Bar, Humor, Incest, M/M, Undercover As Gay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-17
Updated: 2011-08-17
Packaged: 2017-10-22 18:28:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/241182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lenore/pseuds/Lenore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They don't just have to pretend to be gay. They have to be the gayest! This was written for <a href="http://linaerys.livejournal.com/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://linaerys.livejournal.com/"><b>linaerys</b></a> and it's dedicated to everyone on my flist who is celebrating today. Happy birthday, my fellow June 20th babies!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come on, baby, let me know

**Author's Note:**

> I was in the mood to write something dirty, and the lovely folks on my friendslist helped me out with suggestions, and I'm going to write as many of them as I can in a smutty celebration of my birthday next week. Last year, people wrote me stories. I figure this year it's my turn!

It really shouldn't have been this hard to track a demon that left a stink like rotten eggs wherever it went—not one or two eggs either, more like an overheated warehouse full of them. This was Dean's sour line of thinking as they entered the fifth hour of their oh-so futile search. They'd had the complete tour and then some of Levittsville, PA, driving around with the Impala's windows down, noses up in the air, like he and Sam were a couple of bloodhounds. All this effort had been for nothing, or more precisely, too much, way, _way_ too much. Levittsville's lone industry left standing after the coal mine tapped out and the steel factories packed up and went to China was a paper mill, belching great plumes of white vapor high into the sky, morning, noon, and night. The demon smell got totally lost in the larger, everyday stench.

Dean shifted restlessly, tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. He'd had just about enough of stink patrol. "One glistening tear, my ass. That Keep America Beautiful Indian guy would be freakin' bawling his eyes out if he ever got a load of this place."

"We're the only ones who can stop this thing," Sam said, no doubt trying to rally Dean's demon-hunting spirits. Mostly, he just sounded resigned. "Let's try the next place on the list. The demon's struck at least twice that we know of at by-the-hour motels. We've got to get lucky sometime."

"You'd think so," Dean grumbled under his breath. A string of vengeful spirits, two werewolves, and one sprite with a decidedly malicious sense of humor had left almost no time for sleeping lately, much less hitting the nearest honky tonk to ply his charms on the local ladies. The sex demon they were chasing was getting _way_ more action than Dean was.

At first glance, the Starlight looked pretty much like all the other low-rent roach coaches they'd investigated. Its better days, if such a thing had ever existed, were clearly in the rearview mirror, paint faded and peeling off the walls, roof a mess of missing shingles, the sign outside crawling with rust, neon flickering like it was about to give up the ghost at any moment, the sadly boastful "Free color television in every room!" all the more ironic considering why people braved the place at all. Dean doubted anyone was going to take time out from their regularly scheduled nookie to admire how vivid a red Katie Couric's blouse was on the 16-inch RCA bolted to the formica-topped dresser.

"Hey." Sam jerked to attention in his seat. "You see that?"

A dark gray cloud hovered over the Starlight. Anyone who wasn't paying real good attention probably would have mistaken it for just another of Levittsville's many environmental disasters, but if you looked closely, you could see that the cloud was swirling and fluxing and occasionally had what appeared to be a face.

Dean rubbed his hands together. "Let's go kick some demon ass."

Tracking the thing by its stink was certainly no trouble now. The tricky part was not coughing up a lung or puking on their boots in the process. The smell led them to room 126.

Sam pounded on the door. "Hello? Anyone in there? This is the manager. We've got a gas leak. You need to evacuate." No answer, not even the rustling around of people frantically trying to get their clothes back on, and Sam beat on the door more insistently. "Hey! I'm serious. This place could go up at any moment."

Still nothing. Sam looked to Dean, and Dean nodded, drew his gun, just because that always made him feel better. He mouthed, _one, two, three!_ , and they kicked in the door, rushed inside and stopped cold in their tracks.

"Jesus." Dean's stomach did an acrobatic maneuver, letting him know it would really rather be somewhere else. "That never gets any less disturbing."

Two men, or what was left of them anyway, lay clenched together on the bed, one still braced above the other, bodies locked in intercourse, as rigid as stone, as white as alabaster, like all the color and life and... _juice_ had been drained right out of them.

"With the way that demon stinks, you'd think they would have at least," Dean waved his hand, "stopped what they were doing."

"It feeds on sexual energy," Sam said distractedly as he searched the room. "Maybe it gives off something to, you know, keep its victims in the mood."

Dean checked under the bed, found nothing, and started opening nightstand drawers. "Do you think this thing was, I don't know, conjured up by fundamentalists or something? Why is it only going after gay guys?"

Sam shrugged. "It's opportunistic. Maybe it's trolling somewhere that there just happens to be a lot of—" He bent down and rummaged around by the headboard and came up with a matchbook. "Like a gay sex club."

Dean leaned in for a closer look. " _Balls and Chain_." He rolled his eyes.

Sam grinned. "Looks like that's our next stop."

* * *

The good news was: _Balls and Chain_ looked pretty much like any other bar, at least the front of it did. There was a shadowy nether region if you kept going past the polished mahogany and brass, but Dean chose not to think about what might be going on back there. The bad news was: the guy who greeted them at the door didn't appear particularly convinced by their gayness, or impressed with their attire for that matter, giving Dean a look up and down, eyebrow lifted at his day-old jeans and T-shirt.

"I'm Ramon, the club's concierge. I'm afraid we're strictly members only here. So if you wouldn't mind..." He made a shooing motion.

Dean idly wondered how fast he could make Ramon shit his pants if he whipped out his 9mm and started waving it around.

Sam, ever useful in situations like this, ducked his head, letting his hair fall into his face. "Hey, Ramon. I'm Sam. Good to meet you. Look, we're new in town, trying to find a place to hang out where, you know, we fit in. I realize we're not members, but we're really hoping you can help us out." He smiled expectantly, all big puppy dog eyes.

It was a little disgusting really, the way Sam slathered on the boyish charm, but as always, it seemed to do the trick. "Well, normally we have a fairly rigorous vetting process, but—" Ramon hesitated. "I'll see what I can do."

He stepped away to talk with the manager, and Dean looked around to get the lay of the land, not the brightest move as it turned out. There were two guys going at it hot and heavy not ten feet away, apparently trying to swallow each other's tonsils, their hands down each other's pants.

"Jeez," Dean murmured under his breath. Why couldn't this stupid demon be haunting a tittie bar instead?

"Cheer up, Dean. Maybe you'll get lucky next time." Sam was grinning, like he knew exactly what Dean had been thinking.

Dean made a face, just as the manager came out to meet them. He cleared his throat. "Hey, I'm Dean, and this is Sam."

"Shawn." His eyes were bright and amused as his gaze flicked between the two of them. "Ramon tells me you're interested in joining us. You realize this is a club for couples? Are you together?" He tilted his head, and Dean kind of wondered if maybe he was picturing them naked.

"Um." Sam shifted his weight from one leg to the other. "Well—"

"You bet we're together." Dean plastered on a smile and slung his arm across Sam's shoulders. "About four moths now. Isn't that right, Sweetcheeks?" He made a kissy face at Sam.

Sam narrowed his eyes, but followed Dean's lead anyway, "Yep. My studmuffin got a job at the paper mill, so...here we are. In Levittsville, looking for some nightlife."

Shawn regarded them dubiously, and Dean was gearing up to lay a wet one on Sam, if that was what it took, when Shawn flashed a smile. "Welcome to _Balls and Chain_ then." He handed Dean an ID card. "That's only temporary. You and your boyfriend will need to go through the approval process, but you're welcome as our guests in the meantime."

"Thanks, man." Dean gloated in Ramon's direction.

Ramon tipped his nose up into the air, a look of _oh God, what kind of riffraff are we letting in here now_. Sam grabbed Dean by the elbow and pulled him off to the bar before he could do anything about it.

"Budweisers," Sam told the bartender, and then muttered under his breath to Dean, "Just drink your beer and behave."

"What was that guy's problem? Also, _studmuffin_?" He raised an eyebrow.

" _Sweetcheeks_?" Sam countered.

Dean grinned. "If the name fits, Sammy."

Their beers were plunked down in front of them, and Dean took a good, long hit off his.

"Have you given any thought to what we're going to do now that we're in here?" Sam asked, nodding at a fellow patron who was making eyes at him.

"You keep that up," Dean deadpanned, "and you are going to end up someone's boyfriend." Sam glared, and Dean waved his hand. "Fine. Be all humorless. I figure we poke around until we find this demon, and then, you know, do our thing."

"Do our thing?" Sam mimicked.

"What? You have a better idea?"

"Yeah, Dean, I have a better idea," Sam said, a silent _duh_ at the end of it. "You're just not going to like it much."

This got Dean's attention. "What?"

"The demon's in this amorphous state, right? Except when it's attacking—"

"So we play bait," Dean finished the sentence for him. "No big deal."

Sam shifted on the barstool. ""Yeah, but, Dean, this place is like a buffet for something that feeds on sexual energy. I think we've got to—you know, stand out somehow."

"What are you saying? We don't just have to play gay? We have to be the _gayest_?"

Sam's answer was to slide his hand onto Dean's thigh. "Try not to blow our cover." Then Sam's mouth was puckering up and looming and _wham_ , pressed up against Dean's. Sam went into a soft shoe routine of a smooch, sidling and mincing, the crescendo a rather timid nibble to Dean's bottom lip. Clearly, Sam had gotten all his ideas about kissing from watching Oprah. When he pulled away, Dean announced as much.

Sam's nostrils flared, and his mouth pulled flat at the corners, his official _I am pissed now_ face. "Six people are dead, remember?"

"Well, if you knew what you were doing—"

Dean figured the best way to teach Sammy something was just to show him. He hooked a hand behind Sam's neck and tugged him close and laid one on him, a _real_ kiss, without all that pussyfooting around, just tongue and teeth and some serious swapping of spit.

Sam, the fucker, not only pushed Dean away, but actually had the nerve to wipe his mouth on his sleeve. "What the hell was that?"

"They call it a kiss, Sammy," Dean declared smugly.

Sam widened his eyes incredulously. "Dude. How have you _ever_ gotten laid?"

Dean glared. "Bitch."

"Jerk," Sam shot back, just as emphatically.

The bartender shook his head, not even trying to pretend he wasn't laughing at them. "Let me guess. You guys were friends first and then decided to hook up."

For a moment, the proverbial pin dropping would have sounded enormous.

Sam mumbled, "Um, something like that."

The bartender grinned even harder. "I can always spot 'em."

Sam and Dean carefully didn't look at each other and finished their beers and by unspoken agreement, called it quits on their first evening of being gay for each other.

* * *

The next morning, Sam meticulously scanned the local papers, but there was no mention of any mysterious deaths.

"Well, that's good, at least." Dean sat on the edge of his bed, pulling on his boots.

Sam was frowning. "Yeah, but there's not even any mention of the two bodies we found at the Starlight."

"Maybe nobody's checked the room yet?"

"At a place like that?" Sam lifted an eyebrow dubiously.

"Yeah. Hmm. Maybe the police are keeping a lid on it?"

Sam nodded. "Could be. Except the first attack made the front page."

Dean grabbed his jacket off the back of a chair. "What else could it be?"

Sam followed him out to the car. "I have no idea."

Dean settled behind the wheel. "These things can't take human form, can they? Clean up after themselves when they're done?" That was the last thing Dean needed, especially before he'd had his first cup of coffee.

Sam shrugged. "Not that I've ever read, but you never know. Maybe it's somebody else doing the covering up for some reason?"

"Great. Just great." Dean let out a resigned sigh. "Okay, so let's hit the police station and the local papers. See if anyone knows more than they're saying. And when we go back to the club tonight, we're going to have to really—" He made a gesture that roughly translated, at least in his mind, _get seriously homosexual all over each other's asses_.

Sam raised an eyebrow.

"Oh, shut up," Dean told him.

Playing at being a couple wasn't the weirdest thing they'd ever done in the line of duty, Dean kept telling himself that as the day went on, in a totally transparent attempt to psych himself up. Hey, once they'd actually pretended to be Celine Dion fans. Now that was just plain _wrong_.

Still, when they got to the club that evening, he made a beeline for the bar, ordered three shots of whiskey, lined them up and kicked them back in rapid succession. The first hit his throat like it was trying to scald him. That was one way to tell you were still alive, he thought ruefully. The next went down more easily, and the third like silk. He took a breath and pushed back his shoulders.

"Come on." He grabbed Sam by the arm and bulldozed his way out onto the dance floor.

Sam was busily giving him the _are you crazy_ look, and Dean swung him around, yanked him close, their chests bumping. "Okay, Sammy. Wow me with your moves."

To make the challenge clear, he did a little pelvic swivel. That got 'em every time. Well, got the ladies, at least. For a moment, Sam just stood there, and Dean was prepared for a robot performance, for locked joints and frozen hips and no sign that Sam had even a passing familiarity with that thing called rhythm. He was prepared, in short, for Sam to disgrace the Winchester name and everything it stood for. But then, Sam surprised him, splaying one of those big paws of his across Dean's back, nudging his knee between Dean's thighs, countering with a thrust-and-glide of his own.

A gauntlet had been thrown down, obviously, and Dean wouldn't have been Dean if he didn't pick it up. He pumped his hips, and Sam answered with a dirty little wiggle. Dean pushed his hands under Sam's shirt and stroked bare skin. Sam cupped Dean's ass in his hands, groping and pulling Dean against him. The point of it all got kind of blurred after a while, and when Sam started sucking on Dean's neck, lost entirely. He made a sound in the back of his throat; he really couldn't help himself. Sam had managed on the first try to find that one spot. Dean let his head fall back and pushed his body forward.

Sam lifted his mouth, "Really?"

Dean dug his fingers into Sam's biceps and hoped it really hurt.

Sam snorted a laugh. "Okay, okay." He went back to what he'd been doing, really applying himself, Dean was happy to note, lips and tongue and the edge of teeth dragging across skin.

Dean's hard on pressed snugly against Sam's, and he wormed his hand further beneath Sam's T-shirt, stroking the strong, sweaty curve of his back. He thought of all the arguments he'd used to coax girls out of their panties, cautionary tales about what could happen to a guy if he didn't get regular sex, blue balls and shriveled dick and the sudden loss of any ability whatsoever to fix a can opener or build a set of shelves. Add another item to that list, he thought in a daze. If a guy went without pussy long enough, he might even start to get turned on by his brother.

"Dean," the word came from low in Sam's chest and sounded almost _broken_.

Well, Dean consoled himself, at least he wasn't the only one.

Sam trailed kisses up Dean's neck and along his jaw and eventually to his mouth. Now that was _more like it_ , Dean thought, as Sam did dirty, dirty things with his tongue. Apparently, when he wasn't watching Oprah, he was tuning in to the Spice channel. Dean held on and kissed back, and they weren't so much dancing anymore as making out to the music, swaying in time, rocking against each other.

The layers of cotton knit and denim separating them were really starting to irk Dean. The two of them had on more clothes than pretty much anybody else in the place, and Dean was beginning to understand the wisdom in going half naked. Apparently, Sam was on the same bandwagon, because he unbuttoned Dean's shirt and let it fall open. He stroked a hand down Dean's chest, staring, and then bent his head to mouth a nipple.

"Yeah, baby, yeah, just like that," Dean crooned, voice low and husky, a tone he'd never expected to use on Sam of all people.

He rucked up Sam's T-shirt and stroked the soft skin at the waistband, apparently a sensitive place, because Sam shuddered and lunged against him, his hard cock dragging against Dean's.

Dean idly wondered just how much it would compromise his dignity if he came in his pants, and the happy answer was: let's worry about that later. Because, frankly, it was hard to imagine anything getting in the way of this orgasm, especially now that Sam had started rubbing a hand along his fly. Dean's dick jerked against his zipper, trying to get closer to that touch.

And then…a wave of stink hit him. In an instant, he and Sam and everyone else on the dance floor were doubled over and gagging.

Sam tugged at his sleeve. "Come on! We've got to—"

"Yeah, yeah." Dean started to push his way through the crowd.

The stench led to the back exit, and they charged out into the alley, and screeched to a stop just the way they had at the Starlight.

"Damn it." Dean swiped a hand through his hair. "If I never see that again—"

There was a couple, drained and lifeless, braced against the wall, frozen together the way they'd been in their last moment alive, one boosted up against the brick, his legs around the other's waist, caught mid fuck.

" _Damn_ it!" Dean said again for good measure.

Sam looked just as shaken as Dean felt. "Let's—" He jerked his head toward the door.

They stumbled back inside and nearly collided with Shawn, who was planted by the exit, directing people to the front door. "There's been a problem with sewage backing up," he announced to the throng of murmuring club-goers. "We've called the city, and they've promised to send a crew right away, but we're going to have to close up for the night. The broken pipe is out back, so we've got it blocked off. Could be a health risk."

That was putting it mildly, Dean thought.

Shawn eyed him and Sam, and started to say something, but then apparently thought better of it. Dean gave Shawn the suspicious once-over, but figured it was better just to play it cool, at least for now. He and Sam streamed out of the building along with everyone else.

In the car, Dean said, "You think that Shawn guy might have something to do with the cover ups?"

"Seems like a candidate. We should keep an eye on him."

"Why do you think it went after those other guys and not us?"

Sam shrugged. "It's looking for the strongest hit of energy. Maybe it thought—you know, that they were hotter?"

Dean jerked his head around to stare at Sam. "Are you saying it doesn't think I'm sexy?"

Sam just rolled his eyes.

  
That night, not many hours after he'd turned in, Dean sat bolt upright in bed, the remains of the dream that had woken him shadowy and unnerving, something about Hershey's syrup and one of those coin-operated vibrating mattresses and Sam's hot, hot mouth all over him. Dean shifted restlessly, and in the other bed, Sam rolled over onto his side, regarding Dean quizzically. He looked just as wide awake. They dragged themselves out of bed, and Dean fished the deck of cards out of his duffel bag, and they bent their heads over hands of pinochle at the little table by the window.

Sometimes Sam didn't know when to keep his mouth shut, like no one had ever taught him the guy code, although Dean sure as hell had given it his best shot. Tonight, though, Sam fixed his eyes on his cards, mouth pressed into a thin, silent line, and Dean made a firm resolution. When this was all over, he was going to log as many hours as humanly possible living it up in strip joints, tucking dollar bills into g-strings, copping a feel of smooth, womanly thigh, paying busty blondes to drape themselves all over him and jiggle and grind and make him forget any of this had ever happened.

* * *

The next night at _Balls and Chain_ , this very sort of amnesia seemed to have set in there. Guys chatted and flirted and groped each other on the dance floor, like they hadn't had to flee the place the night before. Ramon looked down his nose at Dean's attire, as always. Shawn winked as he passed by, a stack of paperwork in his hand. Sam and Dean took their usual spots at the bar, and Mike, the bartender, set down two bottles of Bud without waiting for them to order it. No one looked the least bit worried, which certainly suggested they'd heard nothing about two guys freakishly killed out in the alley.

After a few sips, Sam leaned in, like he was whispering sweet-nothings in Dean's ear, "I'm going to go see if I can get a look around the manager's office."

Dean nodded, and then for the benefit of anyone who might be listening, "You hurry on back from the men's room, Sweetcheeks. You know how you get sometimes when there are too many good-looking guys giving you the time of day. Don't make me come find you."

Sam shook his head as he walked away. Dean grinned to himself and went back to his beer. He didn't notice at first that the guy sitting next to him was trying to get his attention, not until the guy cleared his throat and ventured, "So, I don't suppose you're into cars or anything?"

"Um." Dean blinked.

"It's just—see, I closed the deal a few hours ago on a mint Camaro," the guy explained in a nervous rush. "Been trying to get that baby for months. Finally the owner accepted my offer." He ducked his head a little sheepishly. "I've been dying to tell somebody about it."

"Dude. A mint Camaro? Seriously?" Dean warmed to the conversation. "Got a classic Impala myself. Real sweet ride. Congratulations." He stuck out his hand. "I'm Dean, by the way."

"Hank." They shook hands. "I've got a picture if you want to see—no, never mind. I'm just embarrassing myself." Hank smiled ruefully. "Sorry."

"Hey, man. No. Hit me with it."

"Really?" Hank brightened.

Dean nodded, and Hank whipped out his wallet, pulled out a Polaroid. The Camaro was robin's egg blue, and whoever had owned it sure knew how to take care of a car. The chrome was shining so bright sunlight flared off it in the photo.

Dean whistled. "Now that is a thing of beauty."

Hank tucked away the picture, looking pleased. "I've got it sitting out in the parking lot. I don't suppose you'd like to—"

"Sure. Let me just—" He gestured with his beer bottle, tipped it back, finishing it off. "Okay."

He slid off the barstool, and Hank clapped him on the shoulder and let his hand linger there.

Dean stared down at it. "Um—"

Suddenly, Sam was standing in front of them, forehead scrunched up, not looking at all pleased. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Hank's hand slipped from Dean's shoulder. "You didn't tell me you had a jealous boyfriend."

"Well, now you know." Sam grabbed Dean's arm. "Excuse us." He dragged Dean off down the hall. "Don't you _ever_ stop flirting?"

"Hey, we were just talking cars—"

The rest of Dean's denial got cut off by the dull "oof" he made when Sam threw him up against the wall. "The manager's office was locked, you know, if you give a shit about what we're _supposed_ to be doing here," Sam said in classic bitchy fashion. "But I did find this spot here, dark, and secluded, where the demon might—"

Then Sam was all over him, hand fisted in his shirt, mouth hot and messy, going to town on Dean's lips.

Dean smirked beneath the kisses. "You're not jealous or anything, are you, Sammy?"

Sam bit down, _hard_.

"Ow!" Dean rubbed at his lip, felt the stickiness of blood. "Bitch!"

He pushed off from the wall, turned the tables, slamming Sam back against the exposed brick, biting his neck, just as hard as Sam had bitten him. Sam moaned and closed his eyes, and, God, Dean could feel him panting. Dean licked at the place he'd left with his teeth, and Sam grappled at him, hands pulling at his clothes, trying to get under his shirt. Dean slid his mouth onto Sam's, and then they were kissing up a frenzy, Sam moaning into Dean's mouth, Dean sucking on Sam's tongue.

"Yeah, yeah," Dean muttered when Sam's hands started roaming all over him.

Dean couldn't remember being this damned hard, and Sam's dick was pressed hot and insistently against his hip, and he didn't think. It was all instinct to reach for Sam's fly, push down the zipper. All instinct until he felt wet cotton against his hand and hardness underneath, and then he froze, because, Jesus, that was Sam's _cock_. Sam made a desperate little noise and took charge, opening Dean's pants, thrusting his hand into Dean's underwear, apparently no compunction at all that this was _Dean's_ dick he was fondling.

Dean squeezed his eyes shut and groaned. God, that felt good, and damn it, he wasn't going to be one-upped by his little brother. He pushed down Sam's boxers and looked. Sam was big, not just long but thick, his cock red and wet and bobbing eagerly. Dean licked his lips and ventured a finger along Sam's length, and it wasn't _all_ that different from touching himself. He stroked more firmly, and Sam sucked in a loud breath and pushed their cocks together, his hand wrapped around them both. Dean's thigh muscles trembled, and his lungs felt like they were burning, and he thrust desperately, into Sam's fist, against Sam's cock.

God, now this was _sex_. Sex that could get him thrown in jail and scarred for life and make him…damn it, come way too fast. He gritted his teeth, and his cock pulsed in Sam's hand.

Apparently, Sam was too far gone to razz him about having a hair trigger, because all he said was, "Dean," deep and guttural.

"Yeah, yeah, come on. I got you."

Dean worked him, up and down, rubbing the head with his thumb, and it wasn't a banner night for endurance among the Winchester men. By the third pump of his hand, Sam had spilled over his fist

They fixed their clothes when they'd regained enough brainpower to think of it. Dean was way, _way_ too aware of how sticky his hand was. He let out his breath. "That was—"

Sam swallowed. "Um, hopefully enough bait to get the demon's attention?"

Dean latched onto that, nodding emphatically. "Bait. Exactly."

"Maybe if we go back to the motel it'll follow us?" Sam suggested.

Dean nodded. "Better to take this thing down where no innocent bystanders can get hurt."

In the car, Sam went quiet, staring moodily out the window in typical Sam fashion, and Dean was left to his own disturbing thoughts. The smell of come was fairly overpowering in the confined space, and the freaky part was, Dean could tell Sam's from his own. The scents were decidedly different. On the big list of things he never needed to know, this was way, _way_ up there.

Back at the motel, they readied their supplies, holy water and a special blend of herbs finely ground up, and opened their father's book to the incantation that would exorcise the demon. They waited. And waited. And waited some more.

Finally, Dean flung his arms out and declared to the air, "I know you think I'm sexy. So come _on_ , baby."

Sam sprawled on his bed, hunched over a _National Geographic_ he'd swiped from the motel office. "Sometimes, you really worry me."

* * *

The demon coyly stayed away, much to Dean's annoyance, and that meant another night at _Balls and Chain_.

On the way there, Sam casually announced, "Oh, I also found out there's a room upstairs where—" He cleared his throat. "You know, the really heavy stuff goes down. You need a reservation to get in. I made one for us for tonight."

Dean did a double take, and Sam regarded him perfectly innocently, like this wasn't something that maybe he should have shared with Dean _before_ they were pulling into the parking lot.

The upstairs room was dimly lit, all dark paneling and red velvet drapes, sofas and lounge chairs scattered throughout the space, and when Dean's eyes adjusted, he could see that it was filled with couples…getting busy.

"Damn," he muttered, not quite able to look away as a man nearby deep-throated his partner.

" _Dean_." Sam tugged on his sleeve, and they found an empty spot, a comfortable, loveseat tucked away in a corner.

They sat down, and Sam nervously wiped his palms on his jeans. "I guess we should—"

Dean swallowed hard. "Yeah."

They leaned in, both of them, too abruptly, and bumped their heads. They pulled back and tried again, but the angle was bad, and they clicked their teeth together.

"Jesus, just hold still." Dean gripped Sam's jaw and kissed him.

It was awkward at first, but then Sam swiped his tongue over Dean's bottom lip, and that was—oh, hell, yeah. Dean pressed closer, and Sam slid his hand behind Dean's neck, his thumb stroking in circles. The kissing came easily, and then hotly, and they wouldn't have stopped except for a soft moan from just a few feet away that caught their attention. They looked up, and met the wide-eyed gaze of a man across the way from them. He was bent over an ottoman, and the man behind him was sweating and cursing, and, God, Dean realized: Fucking him.

Maybe it shouldn't have sent a shock of pleasure straight to Dean's cock, but then, things like sex demons shouldn't exist, should they? He grabbed for Sam, pulling at his shirt, not caring that buttons went flying as he ripped it open.

"Jerk," Sam grated, but that turned to a moan as Dean kissed down his chest, stopping briefly to lick at his nipples, before sliding to his knees, pulling his own shirt up over his head as he went.

He could see Sam's chest rising and falling as he opened Sam's jeans and pulled his cock through the slit in his underwear. Dean had never given head to a guy, but, hell, he knew what he liked. How complicated could it be? He licked tentatively at Sam's shaft, and it didn't taste _bad_ , and Sam had started babbling his name, sex slurred and ridiculously hot. So Dean went down

He fumbled around, trying to find a good approach, and okay, so maybe it wasn't as easy as he'd imagined. Sam didn't seem to care much about finesse, though. He pulled at Dean's shoulders and pushed into his mouth, and Dean just went with it, swirling his tongue whenever he remembered to. Sam made a choking noise, and his body tensed, and he came in long pulses. Dean swallowed some and coughed out the rest and wiped his face with the back of his hand.

Sam slumped back against the loveseat, his hair matted to his forehead, his eyes not entirely focused. He looked like sex, and Dean's cock throbbed desperately, as if reminding him that he hadn't got off yet.

That was when he smelled it, the familiar, disgusting stink.

The daze cleared immediately from Sam's expression. He pulled Dean up for a kiss, a calculating light in his eyes. "You ready to get out of here?"

"Yeah, baby." Dean kissed him back. "Let's take this party somewhere more private."

There was no need to wonder if the demon was following them. The stink was still just as strong when they got in the car and only intensified as they walked to their room. The stuff for the exorcism was still laid out on the dresser from the night before, and Sam whispered, "We just need to keep its attention."

Dean nodded, and apparently Sam took this as a sign that he should take off all his clothes. Dean stood there, staring at him, and Sam smiled, a little shyly. He knelt down and pulled Dean's belt from the loops, and, oh God, maybe Dean was just wrong, wrong, not made at _all_ right, because, Sammy on his knees was the hottest thing he'd ever seen, messy curls and serious eyes, like he wanted to do a really, _really_ good job of sucking Dean's cock. Sam planted kisses to Dean's hipbones, and then went to work, hot, hot mouth burning Dean up.

The stink got stronger and stronger, and then…turned oddly sweet. Dean took a breath, and he wanted—God, he _wanted_. Sam glanced up questioningly, and Dean nodded shakily. Sam got to his feet and took Dean's hand and pushed him down onto the bed.

"Are you sure?" Sam's voice caught in his throat, like it cost him just to ask the question.

Dean turned onto his side and pulled his leg up, and he didn't _know_ what he was doing. He just wanted. Sam rustled round the room, and Dean was about to yell at him to get the hell over there when Sam plunked down the holy water and ground herbs onto the nightstand next to him.

"You—and I'll—" It was amazingly practical of him considering how wild his eyes were.

"Yeah, yeah," Dean said. He would have agreed to just about anything right then. "But can we—I need you to—"

Sam shifted their dad's book in his hands, and Dean could see he'd also snagged the complimentary bottle of lotion from the bathroom. He stretched out along Dean's back and kissed Dean's neck, and the sweet smell just got sweeter.

"Please," Dean begged, already shaking.

The first finger felt _huge_. Dean's ass burned at the invasion, and why the hell was he doing this again? That thought was only fleeting, though, when Sam crooked his finger just the right way. Then Dean was cursing and pushing back for more, more, oh God, _more_ of that. Sam added another finger, and stroked and tickled, and that was enough, that was— "Do me, Sammy. Come _on_! Just fucking do me."

So Sam did, gave it to him, cock pushing right in, and _huge_ got a whole new meaning.

"Shit!" Dean couldn't stop trembling.

"Are you—"

"Don't stop!"

For once, Dean might have been just a teensy-tiny bit grateful for a demon's influence, because Sam actually kept going, inch by inch, taking Dean over. The sweetness was so cloying by now that Dean could taste it in the back of his throat, and the same dark gray vapor they'd seen at the Starlight was seeping under the door, swirling and fluxing and taking shape. Dean could see a face. He thought it might be laughing at them.

"Dean, we have to—" Sam said, like there was no air in his lungs.

"Okay, okay. Just don't." He grabbed Sam's hip and held him there, kept Sam inside him.

Dean threw the holy water at the demon and then the herbs. It sputtered, and the sweetness turned instantly back to stench, even more stomach-turning than before. The demon shimmered and vibrated, trying to revert back to its amorphous state, but the holy water and herbs bound it. Sam read the incantation, and he only stumbled over the Latin a little when Dean pushed against him, fucking himself on Sam's cock. The demon let out a high pitched wail, louder and louder the closer Sam got to finishing the exorcism, and when he did finally hit the last word, the wail became a screech. The shimmering became increasingly wobbly, and finally, the thing imploded, flash of light, an ear-splitting noise, the room shaking, and then, it was gone, the stink disappearing along with it.

"God," Sam moaned.

He pumped inside Dean, once, twice, and they both came.

The sounds of "oh, _yeah_ " and "please, please" had barely died in the air when the door was kicked open, and Shawn burst in, a vial of water in one hand and what looked to be a bag of herbs in the other. He skidded to a stop on the carpet. "Oh. You're not dead."

He started to slink away, and Dean said. "We got rid of it. And just how do you know about this demon anyway?"

Shawn made an oh-please face. "In my business? Hazard of the profession. I've done at least three exorcisms this year alone. Now, if that's all, I should be—" He darted a look over at the bed. "Unless, maybe you'd—" He smiled hopefully.

Dean looked to Sam, who promptly whacked him on the arm. "Um, I guess not?"

Shawn shrugged. "Your loss. Well—see you around."

He shut the door behind him, as much as he could anyway given that it had been wrenched off its hinges. Sam flopped back onto the bed and stared up at the ceiling. He let out a sigh. "Well, at least that's over."

Dean shifted his hips and sucked in his breath through his teeth. Okay, that was going to smart when he had to spend all day sitting in the car. "Um, yeah." He cleared his throat. "Over."

He figured it wasn't the time to bring it up with Sam or anything, but he was pretty sure. When you started something like this, there was really no such thing as the end.


End file.
